


Blessed Hands: Lifeline

by ArvenaPeredhel



Series: Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Appendices [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Healing, Medical Procedures, Post-Thangorodrim Wound Care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: While Findekáno scrubs the grime from his hair, Maitimo’s life rests in the hands of the Nolofinwëan master healer Endanáro and his apprentices. Meant to be read after chapter five of Blessed Hands Will Break Me.
Series: Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Appendices [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658740
Comments: 20
Kudos: 64





	1. Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wasn’t going to write this, but when I published 100k words of Blessed Hands, I found I couldn’t resist. Thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me.

Endanáro sat up, waking all at once. The Sun had set a few hours ago, and like most of the Noldor in the Nolofinwëan encampment he didn’t bother with staying awake long into the night, instead choosing to dream away the darkness. This night, however, his dreams had been unusually fitful, filled with whispered warnings and a sense of desperate foreboding, and it had unsettled the  _ elda  _ beyond a point where true rest was possible.

_ I can hear someone coming,  _ he thought.  _ I wonder what’s happened.  _ He wasn’t sure how he knew that whoever was darting across the grass was aiming for  _ his  _ tent, but it was a certainty nonetheless, and so when the canvas flap was drawn aside and a brown arm thrust its way in, bearing a candle, he was already waiting for the news.

“What’s happened?” he asked, as soon as he could see the face of the  _ elda  _ who had come to him. It was a keen-eyed  _ nís  _ whose dark and curling hair had escaped its careful plait, clad in a breastband and long trousers and a cloak that had evidently been thrown over her shoulders as fast as possible. He knew her instantly - Anarórë, one of his many apprentices, and nearly ready for her mastery exams by the reckoning of the school they had both left behind in Valannor. 

“You have to come at once,” she said, shoulders shaking as she gasped for breath.  _ “Aranel  _ Lalwendë roused me, and I haven’t a moment to spare, but - !”

“What is it?” Endanáro repeated, his voice calm and steady. The  _ nís  _ before him was evenhanded and slow to any sort of excitement; it was this unshakable gravitas that made her an excellent healer. It was hard to reconcile what he knew of her with this trembling, frightened  _ elda  _ whose hand shook even as it held a lit candle. 

“It - there’s - !” 

She took another breath, and exhaled slowly; he could see her willing herself to be calm. When at last she spoke again, it was steady, and sure. 

_ “Haryon  _ Findekáno is alive,” she told him, and her words sent sparks running up and down his spine. “He came out of the North, on Eagleback, and he didn’t come alone.”

Endanáro’s mouth fell open in shock. For a long moment he sat still, gaping at his apprentice, but at last he managed words of his own.

“How wounded is he?”

“He’s walking,” Anarórë said, “but  _ aranel _ Lalwendë told me that the  _ Artaran  _ has called for a healer to see to him. It is his - his  _ companion  _ \- that is near to death, and in dire need of immediate aid.”

“Companion?” the master healer asked, raising an eyebrow.

The  _ nís  _ frowned, her face twisting into an uncomfortable expression.  _ “Condo  _ Nelyafinwë,” she admitted at last, looking down at the grass. “I am told he is unconscious, and grievously wounded, and in danger of bleeding out.”

_ Nelyafinwë?  _ Endanáro thought, yet more shock rendering him speechless a second time.  _ But he was slain, surely - _

_ \- unless what  _ haryon  _ Findekáno told the  _ Artaran  _ was a lie, and was meant to keep anyone from guessing what he meant to do.  _

Unlike many of the other  _ eldar  _ in the camp, Endanáro had been privy to what little his King knew of Findekáno’s disappearance. He was both the oldest of their host and the most experienced in matters of survival on these hither shores, having been here once before during the Great Journey, and he had tried to encourage Nolofinwë and raise his hopes despite the mounting likelihood that their prince had perished.  _ But he survived,  _ he thought,  _ despite all the obstacles set against him. And he succeeded in what he meant to do.  _

“All right,” he said, fighting the urge to sink his head into his hands. “Wake Amdis, and send her to look after  _ haryon  _ Findekáno, and tell her that I’ll want her when she’s finished. Indîrië is in the tent beside her - tell her to rouse the rest of us, and to come to the bathhouse when she’s done that.”

“The bathhouse?”

“I don’t want anyone who isn’t a healer or his close kin laying eyes on  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë yet,” Endanáro explained. “Even you seemed unhappy to know he wasn’t dead.” 

“But I - !”

“I’m not passing judgment, Anarórë,” he told her. “I’m merely stating facts.” She had the good sense to look ashamed, and he was kinder when he continued instructing her. “When you’ve done that, get dressed, and then go to the bathhouse yourself. I want one tub as hot as it can get, and the other closer to tepid, and I want that long table that we’ve been using to hold clothes and personal possessions scrubbed down and ready for use in surgery.” 

“What about you?” she asked.

“I have to gather my things, and ready myself for hours of Song,” he said. “It may be days before I am able to sleep again.”

“That’s why you want Amdis,” the  _ nís  _ guessed. “To sing the weariness from you.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling faintly. “Where is  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë now?”

_ “Aranel  _ Lalwendë is keeping watch over him,” Anarórë said. “She was the only one who saw him who knew who he was. She’s by the shore of the lake, in the sight of the great house.”

“I’ll help her bring him to the bathhouse once I’ve finished preparations,” he said, and nodded at her. “Go, and be quick about it. If Lalwendë’s assessment of his condition is anywhere near accurate, we have very little time in which to act.”

Anarórë ducked back out of his tent, taking the candle with her, and Endanáro was left in darkness again. He reached into a nearby bag and drew out a stone lamp, bringing it to life with a touch of his thumb against its side. The whole camp’s store of herbs and tonics was with him, until a suitable infirmary with a storeroom was built, and so he was permitted to have one of the few lights that did not burn, to keep heat and fire far from the precious medicines. They had used much of what he had brought on the Ice, and even though some of what grew on these shores was known to him, many flowers and roots that he had come to rely on were nowhere to be found. 

The reality that his stock might be completely exhausted on one of the  _ eldar  _ responsible for abandoning him to the Ice was not lost on him.

He set the stone lamp on a low stool to his left that had been converted into a tiny shrine to Estë and Nienna, watching the light cast shadows over the carved surfaces of a pair of statues that stood on each end of the wood. The figures were abstract, both made of grey stone and evocative of what the artist had judged the Valier to  _ feel  _ like rather than what they resembled, and dried  _ campilossë  _ blossoms had been scattered between them in homage to the  _ Ilúvatar.  _ Unlike many of his fellow Noldor, Endanáro had neither lost his faith nor suffered a serious blow to it, and so while he gathered up every last herb and infusion that was in his tent he murmured the customary prayers of a healer and hoped that someone would hear them. 

“I will need all the strength that any of you might grant me,” he finished, closing the latch on his bag and picking up his white master’s robe that lay folded on another stool to keep it from the ground. “Whether he lives or dies, I will need it.” 

He picked up the lamp and left the tent, setting off for the shore of the lake. 

* * *

_ Alive,  _ Írimë thought for what must have been the thousandth time.  _ Alive, alive, alive.  _ She sat on a log near the edge of the clearing that Sorontar had landed in, staring down at the hardy grasses that grew up out of the sand beneath her boots. Behind her, wrapped in a cloak and a blanket and barely breathing, was her  _ hánoyon  _ Maitimo; nothing she had said or done to him had managed to rouse him from his sleep. The hood of the cloak was drawn down over his face, both to protect its many open wounds from dust and grit and to protect him from any prying eyes. By the dawn, she didn’t doubt the whole camp would know he was in their care, but for now, there was no harm in letting him rest in anonymity. 

Findekáno, too, was alive, and somehow that was even more astonishing to her than the mutilated  _ elda  _ on the other side of the log. Despite running off into the night, despite turning Nolofinwë from an unshakable rock to a frightened father, despite days and days and days passing with no word, he had returned, and had done so without bearing the frightful marks of torment that his cousin was so marred by. 

_ This is why he left,  _ she realized suddenly, burrowing the toes of her boots into the sand.  _ He went after Maitimo. He meant to bring him back to freedom.  _

She had been toasting his memory with a few friends in preparation for tomorrow’s funeral when Alcarinquar had come tearing out of the great house and demanded their help in clearing a place for Sorontar to land, and had been the one to fill the wooden tub the Eagle had drunk from with water. As a result, she had been near enough to be one of the first to spot the pair of figures on his back, and had been one of the three  _ eldar  _ to ease Maitimo down to earth. One look at his hair in the torchlight had revealed his identity, but as far as Írimë knew, she was the only one to see the gleam of copper before it had been hidden by the cloak he was wrapped in shifting to cover it. Wanting to keep it that way, she had brought him to this spot, and fetched a blanket from her now-abandoned fire and circle of seats, and covered what was left of his pale, lanky form with the thick cloth. Findaráto had kept watch for her while she ran for Anarórë’s tent, and then had vanished in the company of his sister; she wondered if he had guessed at the identity of the sleeping figure, but had no desire to seek him out and abandon her charge.

_ “Aranel-nînya,”  _ a voice behind her said, startling her out of her thoughts. Turning to look over her shoulder, Írimë saw a tall, slender figure in the white robe of a master healer. He bore a leather satchel on one shoulder, its strap crossing his chest.

_ “Ingolmo  _ Endanáro,” she answered, shifting around completely to face him. “Thank you for coming.”

“I have served your family tirelessly since I first made my oaths to your father in Cuiviénen,” he said. “I would not refuse the summons of the House of Finwë now.”

Írimë shivered, remembering suddenly how very old the  _ nér  _ before her was. But there was little time to dwell on that, for Maitimo shifted in his blanket, letting out a faint cry that was stifled by the cloak over his face.

“Let me see him,” the healer instructed, sinking to his knees beside her  _ hánoyon _ and drawing his lamp from a pocket in his robe. It flared to life, casting pale light over the sand, and for a moment Írimë’s heart stung at the sight of it and how close it drew to the memory of the Trees.  _ No,  _ she thought,  _ not now, I can weep later,  _ but her hands were trembling as she drew back the hood from Maitimo’s face.

The sharp intake of breath from Endanáro was all she needed to be certain that things were as bad as she’d feared.

“My hands came away red when I lay him down here,” she said. “He is bleeding, even now - I’ve no idea how he’s managed to live for this long.”

“He may have survived long enough to die in freedom,” Endanáro said. There was a resignation to his voice that was unsettling. “Or he may yet live. I cannot tell now.”

“Where will you be treating him?” 

“The bathhouse,” he said, looking across the camp to the little wooden structure now ablaze with light. “And I’ll be barring entry to anyone who isn’t one of my apprentices, or one of you.”

“Thank you,” Írimë told him, getting off the log and crouching beside Maitimo. “You’ll need help moving him.”

“I will,” the healer agreed, moving his hands beneath the senseless figure. “I have his head, and his torso.”

“I can support his legs,” she said. “We’ll move slowly. He’s lighter than he looks - he must be skin and bones, and no more.”

“Evidently skin and bones and blood,” Endanáro answered, grimacing. “I can feel it soaking the cloak.”

“Then we’ll make haste,” Írimë announced, positioning herself opposite the other  _ nér.  _ “I’m ready when you are.”

_ “Neldë,”  _ he counted aloud,  _ “atta, min -  _ now.”

They rose in unison, keeping Maitimo level between them, and began to move carefully across the sand. Endanáro was walking backwards, each step surprisingly graceful and easy; Írimë guessed he had done this many times before.

“You will have to guide me, as I can’t see behind me,” he said to her, and she nodded and kept her eyes fixed on the bathhouse. Somehow, in spite of the darkness, she didn’t trip once, instead successfully navigating uneven sand and stubborn earth. Now and again she murmured a direction to the healer, who deftly avoided all obstacles with an ease she envied. At last they were at the door to the bathhouse, with Endanáro’s back pressed against the uneven wooden planks that made it up. He kicked twice against the bottom of the frame, probably signaling to whoever was inside. 

“If - if he dies,” Írimë said quietly, “we won’t blame you.” 

“It’s not  _ your _ blame I’m worried about,” he told her just as quietly. She frowned, but before he could explain further the door opened inward, sending candlelight pouring out across the grass. Anarórë was just inside the bathhouse; she had opened the door for them.

“The table is scrubbed down,” she said, “and the tepid water you asked for is ready. I’ve sung for the stones in the other tub to grow hot, and  _ that _ water is fresh as well.”

“You work fast,” Írimë said approvingly.

“I would expect nothing less of myself,” the  _ nís  _ answered proudly. “Come inside, and put him down, and we can look at him.” She glanced at Endanáro as soon as she’d spoken, as if asking his forgiveness and his approval for giving orders. He nodded to her, and took the first steps into the bathhouse. Írimë followed, wondering for the first time what had happened to Maitimo to make him so emaciated and so easy to carry despite his great stature. 

The table that Anarórë had prepared was immediately inside, with the pair of tubs beyond it and set into the ground. They were both filled with water, and one was steaming. Around the edges of the wooden house, dozens upon dozens of candles burned, so that it was almost bright as day. 

“Indîrië and the others are getting more light, and scrubbing down for surgery in the kitchen of the house,” the apprentice healer explained as Endanáro and Írimë set their burden down upon the table. “They all brought their own candles here, but we’ll need more.”

“I have my own lamp, as well,” Endanáro said, drawing it out of his pocket again. “We can suspend that above him if need be.” 

“Do you need me further right now?” Írimë asked. “If not, I mean to go back to the house and speak to my brother.”

“I think we will survive without you,” the master healer informed her with a faint smile. “But would you tell Amdis that once she’s finished with  _ haryon  _ Findekáno, she can rest for an hour or so before she comes back here? I’ll want her to sing for me.”

“Of course,” she said. “And - thank you. Both of you.” She looked from Endanáro to Anarórë gratefully. “This… it won’t be forgotten, you have my word.” She blinked, realizing she was on the verge of tears, and forced herself to smile despite that. Drawing her right arm up across her chest, she bowed briefly in the fashion of a minor noble greeting royalty, rose back up, and then turned on her heel and left the bathhouse without another word.

Anarórë stared openmouthed as her  _ aranel  _ departed. She wasn’t sure if she had expected anything from the royal family, but if she had, it was not such a high honor. 

“Come,” Endanáro told her after a few moments. “We have work to do.” He took his satchel off from his shoulder and set it down at the end of the table, rolled up the sleeves of his robe, and began to unwrap  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë from the stiff and sticky cloth that clung to him so tightly. She joined him, deftly peeling back the finely woven wool as if unwrapping a glazed bun from its paper case and wincing at her comparison. Every inch of pale skin revealed to the light was damaged somehow, either by bruises or lacerations or some combination of both, and she could not help but cry out when at last the cloak and blanket fell away and revealed the full extent of the horror that the unconscious  _ nér  _ had endured.

_ “Ai, Elentári,”  _ she gasped, and then winced again when Endanáro gave her a sharp look. Her master had not lost his piety, and was unusually strict about such things as careless invocations of the Valar. 

“He…” Anarórë tried again, swallowing bile, “he is  _ wrecked.”  _ And this, at least, could not be argued - she had no idea how the  _ nér  _ on the table before her was not dead from his wounds. He was painfully, impossibly thin, his bones standing up beneath paper-dry skin. Every place they had broken and healed and broken again was visible, and his still-cracked ribs shifted with every breath he took. She could see half-healed burns and cuts and welts, and then see the places where he had bled a second or third or fourth time, layered on top of one another. His right shoulder was ruined, turned from a healthy joint to an ugly mess of bone fragments, and she knew that even if he had been close to waking the pain from such an injury would be enough to drive him into unconsciousness all on its own. Both his hips were dislocated, and the left one bore a deep cut that cleaved what little flesh he had left away from the joint, nearly severing the leg. 

“I could span his waist with both my hands,” she said, “or put my finger and thumb around the whole of his thigh.”

When her eyes fell on his right arm and the stump of his wrist wrapped in tattered strips of cloth, she nearly cried out a second time, only stopping herself at the last second. 

_ “Mana - ?!”  _

Endanáro saw the wound, and drew in a deep breath that betrayed how shaken he was. 

“This is freshly done,” he said, “and still bleeding, if those bandages are any indication.”

“But - but who could have - ?”

_ “Haryon  _ Findekáno,” he told her, carefully unwrapping the wrist and grimacing at how much blood had soaked its bindings. 

“Did you see him? Did he say so?”

“No,” he said, placing the ruined strips of cloth beside  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë’s right hip. “But look - there is no sign of healing, no coagulation in the blood.” He deftly began to pick out pieces of white bone from the flesh. “And look - there, on the skin.” He lifted up the wrist, and Anarórë came around to examine it more closely. She spotted what her master saw immediately - on the edges of  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë’s forearm were faint smudges of green and black - the telltale signs of rot.

“His hand was gone,” she realized, her blood turning to ice. “Even if it hadn’t been severed yet. We can’t save extremities in that condition.”

“We can’t,” Endanáro agreed. “This kept us from taking his whole arm, I’d wager the  _ Artaran’s  _ fortune on it.”

The door to the bathhouse opened, and the rest of the apprentices and novices filed in, two and three at a time. Those who still had their healer’s robes wore them, and the rest had dressed in sturdy tunics or gowns made of the undyed linen that was a fixture around the camp. Almost every  _ elda  _ bore a candle or a torch. 

Endanáro looked up from the unconscious Nelyafinwë and nodded at the newcomers. In total, perhaps twenty of those who had left with him had survived the Ice, and they packed closely around the table. 

“We have a long labor ahead of us,” he told them all, pitching his voice up so it would carry around the room. “And we are going to take it in shifts. I want to get a look at his back, and see what’s bleeding there, and sing to stop it. Once I’m satisfied he’s not going to bleed out entirely, and assuming he doesn’t die, we’ll bathe him, and clean him, and open up any skin that has closed over a still-festering wound so that nothing lingers beneath the skin. His hair needs to be cut, unfortunately, so I’ll expect at least one of you to do that as well. After that we’re going to stitch up his wrist, and I can have a look at his shoulder and his hip and his ribs. We might need to break a few bones to reset them, but I would like to wait until the rest is done before I assess the need for such a drastic action.”

No one spoke, or moved. Every eye in the room was fixed on the prone form that lay on the table. 

Endanáro sighed. 

“If any of you can’t stomach the thought of helping him,” he said, “leave. Now. I won’t force you to save his life, and I won’t punish you or dismiss you for your departure. But if you stay, then stay to  _ work,  _ and to labor for his recovery, and don’t be careless or lazy because of the identity of our patient. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” someone said, and their answer was repeated and echoed until the whole of the room was nodding at him.

“You have my leave to go,” he informed them. 

No one moved. 

The master healer looked around the room, catching each face; every  _ elda  _ that he saw was shocked, and shaken, but determined.

“Very well,” he said. “Amdis is seeing to  _ haryon  _ Findekáno, and I’m going to ask after her. Anarórë will oversee our stores of herbs, and dose them out as needed. There are eighteen of you other than those two, and I expect you to divide the labor up between yourselves. Those who will be assisting me in examining his skin and in surgery can rest for now, but I want at least four  _ eldar  _ to go fetch enough linen for fresh bandages, and get to work making salves and adhesives for them. The rest of you - we need soaps, and astringents, and plenty of washrags, and we will want more water before too long.” He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Go.”

The order only needed to be given once. Anarórë opened up his satchel, and Indîrië and five others who she beckoned to set out in search of linen, and the others went to test the water and bring out all that would be needed to clean the filth from Nelyafinwë’s  _ hröa.  _ Endanáro himself shrugged out of the slump he had fallen into and turned his mind to Amdis. He was easily the most skilled out of all their host at  _ ósanwë-kenta,  _ and it was simple to find the  _ nís  _ and call out to her silently.

_ How is he?  _ he asked, feeling her initial prickle of shock at the contact between them. 

_ He’ll recover, I think,  _ she informed him.  _ His wrist and ankle are shattered, but they can be braced and bound in plaster, and I’ll find a crutch once that’s done. He has other minor injuries that ought to heal on their own.  _

_ Tell him that his slapdash field amputation will be repaired,  _ Endanáro said, and something that would have been a low chuckle if said aloud followed his thought.  _ He saved  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë’s arm from rot.  _

_ Good for him, then,  _ Amdis said.  _ I’ll say that, and then I have to go mix up a batch of plaster while he takes a bath. _

_ Tell me if his wounds are worse than you guessed,  _ he instructed.  _ I can be spared from here in dire emergencies. _

_ Of course,  _ the  _ nís  _ answered.  _ You’ll be the first to know if something happens.  _

With that, he let her go, slipping back into the confines of his own head easily. 

_ “Ingolmo?”  _ a voice asked him. He glanced at its source, a youth named Elenér. 

“Yes?”

“We’re going to be assisting you in surgery,” Elenér said, inclining his head at the five  _ eldar  _ who now remained around the table. “What should we do?”

“Help me lift him,” Endanáro instructed. “I want to see his back. Once I know a sudden change won’t shock him into death, and won’t end with a burst artery, we’ll sing for the bleeding to stop so he can be bathed.” 

“How long will we have to sing for?” another youth asked. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Haven’t you been keeping up with your exercises?”

“Well, yes, but - !”

“You’ll sing until he’s clean,” he ordered. “I’ll sing with you.”

No one dared speak up again, but he could feel their nerves and uneasiness. This would be the longest any of them had ever needed to devote themselves to their craft, and he didn’t doubt that at least Anarórë would emerge having earned her mastery by his reckoning. 

_ If they can’t keep up, they ought to have picked a less demanding vocation,  _ he mused.  _ Which is harsh, I suppose, but these shores are harsh. We must all face that now.  _

In his hands,  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë was silent and almost as still as a corpse, with only the faint rise and fall of his chest betraying that he was not in fact Hallbound. Endanáro turned his thoughts West, seeking out the halls of his patroness. 

_ You’ve kept him alive for this long,  _ he thought, unsure if it was a prayer or a demand.  _ Give him a fighting chance, would you? _


	2. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya translations are at the end of the chapter.

When three of the novices at last managed to lift  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë so he was sitting up, Endanáro went to work carefully pulling the cloak he had lain on away from his back. By now, it was stiff in places with dried blood, and he feared that he would tear open yet more delicate skin, but it could not be helped.  _ I haven’t a choice, really. I have to see what’s been done to him.  _

Shocked gasps filled the air around him as the first few inches of skin were revealed, and he frowned and looked up at the novices. Their eyes were fixed on their patient’s back, staring at the web of  _ nirwi  _ that crossed shoulders and spine.

“What are those?” Elenér asked.

“Do they hurt?” That was Palanwendë, at his shoulder. 

“Will we have to cut them out?” Minyakáno wondered aloud.

Endanáro sighed, and rolled up the left sleeve of his robe, baring a pale mark that arced up across his forearm in a lazy-seeming spiral. The confusion and dismay of the younger  _ eldar  _ now turned on him, and he could feel the weight of their frightened gazes.

“This is what I’ve taken to call  _ nirwë,”  _ he said. “They are rare, and uncommon, and I have only seen them in  _ eldar  _ who awoke at Cuiviénen or who were born there before the Great Journey. It is when a wound heals, but leaves a mark behind.” He gestured with his right hand, tracing the path that the  _ nirwë  _ took over his own skin. “There is no pigment in it, I think as some sign of the evil that it comes from, but it does not pain me. In fact, it’s completely numb - there aren’t nerves in it at all, and I’ve verified that with the scales for sensation.” 

“How did you get it?” Palanwendë asked him.

“I was nearly caught and eaten by a creature living in the deep woods that we passed through to reach the shore,” he said. “It was the size of a hound, and trapped its food in spider-fashion, and my arm was snared in one of its webs. I had meant to kill it, as a show of bravado. I wanted to impress my friends.” He resisted the urge to laugh at the astonished faces that seemed to be trying to reconcile the thought of their  _ ingolmo  _ with the reality that once he had been young and foolish and undignified. “But more to the point -  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë has survived great darkness of his own, and it has marked him, but unless there is lingering malice in his wounds as they heal he will not be pained.” He fell silent again, returning to his careful labor of coaxing cloth from flesh. His apprentices were also silent, though he knew their questions were far from answered, and he could feel their revulsion and unease at the sight of something they only knew as unnatural. 

_ Oh, if only I had left them behind, and brought my brethren with me instead!  _ he thought, and then regretted thinking it. The  _ eldar  _ in the bathhouse were competent, and determined, and capable, despite being mere children. But he could not deny that it would be easier if they weren’t frightened by something as mundane as a few  _ nirwi.  _

_ They won’t be frightened by the time our charge’s fate is decided, at least,  _ he mused.  _ And that is something.  _

The far more pressing concern was  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë’s back, and it was this Endanáro chose to focus on. Every inch of skin that was newly bared to the air brought more bad news. Unlike most of the lacerations on his face or hands or the front of his  _ hröa,  _ those that had been shielded by the cloak were deep, and still bleeding, and showing no sign of healing. His flesh had been cleaved from the bone in three long arcing cuts that curved around shoulders and ribs, and there was a hideous bruise and a mottling of blood trapped beneath the skin at the small of his back and another  _ nirwë  _ sealing it away from the air. Even here, there were marks of burns and welts, and a few places where it looked as if he had been mauled by some sort of animal, with muscle torn away by claws and teeth. 

“This is bad,” Palanwendë murmured; she was the calmest of the six of them, and the first to assess what their labor would entail. 

“It is,” Endanáro agreed. He sighed, and the look in his eyes turned grim and resigned. “His back is broken, do you see?”

“What?” Minyakáno asked, and the three novices who had stepped away from lifting their charge to avoid crowding their comrades were suddenly pressed against the table to get a better look. 

“Here,” the master healer said, pointing with his left hand to the bruises and the  _ nirwë.  _ “You can see the signs of it on his skin.”

“How is he not Hallbound?” Elenér said. It was almost a plaintive cry. “The pain must be - !”

“He is unconscious,” Endanáro said. “I doubt he is feeling anything now. But I could not say how he has managed to keep from dying, only that he has, and so we must try and save him.” He closed his eyes, running over all the scales and arpeggios and phrases he knew, trying to guess at what might be needed to heal such a thing. Whether or not  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë’s  _ hröa  _ would  _ accept  _ anything he Sang was another matter, and one he refused to consider.  _ Song and Word are matters of will,  _ he reminded himself, as if he were just beginning to study under Estë again.  _ And my will is as strong as Moringotto’s. I won’t  _ let  _ him reject this.  _

“I need quiet,” he announced, his voice deep and resonant. It filled the bathhouse instantly, and even the low murmurs ceased. “I will have to improvise a Song, and I will tolerate no distraction. If you must speak, leave now, and do your conversing outside.”

Every  _ elda  _ in the wooden hut seemed to have been frozen to the spot by his announcement. This was the first time he had improvised anything on these shores - when he’d first been here, he’d had no knowledge of Song or of healing save some herbalism - and even in Valannor, such a thing was unusual and risky. 

“You heard him,” Anarórë said. “Stop staring at one another like starstruck newborns and either settle yourselves or leave.”

There was a brief rush of activity, as Indîrië and her five companions gathered up their armfuls of linen and made their way outside to a flat patch of grass.

“We’ll be near enough to hear if you call for us,” she informed both Endanáro and Anarórë, “but the work goes faster if you can talk or sing while you do it.”

“You  _ will  _ be singing, won’t you?” Anarórë asked. “To purge any dirt or grass or stains from the cloth. It’s not sterile out there.”

The younger apprentice gave a tight, almost defiant smile. “Of course,” she said airily. “I’m not an idiot, you know. And it’s hardly sterile in  _ here.”  _

“That’s enough, both of you,” Endanáro said. “This is not the time for bickering. Indîrië, take a light with you.”

Both  _ níssi  _ were instantly contrite, bowing their heads in acknowledgement and falling silent. Indîrië was soon gone, with the others who had sought out bandages, and Anarórë took her place beside Endanáro, waiting for further instruction.

He gave her none, instead taking a deep breath and singing out a low, clear note that resonated in his chest. Unlike most of the novices and apprentices, he had a deep voice, deep enough that he was often called to give voice to Oromë and Ulmo in festival  _ airalindi _ recounting the Great Journey and the invitation to come to Aman; now, the sound of it was enough to quiet the whole bathhouse. He paused after the first note, reflecting, drawing up a plan of attack in his mind, weighing the efficacy of a melismatic style to his lyric and then weighing whether or not to use words at all.

_ Don’t lose focus,  _ he instructed himself, and almost smiled.  _ You’re as nervous as you were when you first Sang for Estë. Start with  _ Lintalyën,  _ and then  _ Apteryalyën,  _ and then the arpeggiated bridge from  _ Sundo,  _ and then perhaps you will be deep enough into him to know what to do next.  _ He could feel a new Song shaping itself in his thought, ready for his call; he poured his will and his desire and his need into it and let it grow.  _ I’ll call you  _ Cévacanta,  _ I think,  _ he decided. It was almost alive within him and it rose to meet its name. 

But even the most fitting Song was nothing without determined willpower behind it, and indeed, Endanáro had found better outcomes in appropriating unrelated melodies for his practice when those notes had held greater value to him and inspired him to want. Almost as an afterthought, he wove fragments of old ballads into his work, calling on his own memories of Tirion and Valannor in the hopes that these would summon  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë up from the depths of whatever slumber he lay in.

_ I’m ready,  _ he decided, though he wasn’t certain of it.  _ Strange, that such a thing can make me feel young again after all this time.  _

_ Now. Will, and aim, and focus, and - _

Endanáro Sang. 

Even if the others in the bathhouse had thought to defy his order for silence, that soon became impossible. The notes of the Song seemed to pour from him, as if he were but a vessel for their melody, and they filled the air of the small hut and wound about each of the other  _ eldar  _ who could hear them, binding them in place and silencing all word and thought that could not reflect back on them and enhance their labor. Each new note seemed to resonate with something deep in the  _ fëa  _ of Arda itself, drawing out vibrancy and resolve and  _ truth,  _ as if the world became more real when seen through the singing. Each apprentice stood, or sat, staring transfixed at the master healer, whose eyes were closed. No word could be discerned in the midst of the music, but all knew what it was he sang of.

Behind eyes and minds, spring was reborn. The Song soothed, and flooded all who heard it with the sensation of reparation and mending, filling every space with the sensation of roots going deep and crossing all barriers before enmeshing and intertwining with one another to seek out new growth, and coaxed out pains and wounds before erasing them in new growth. Again and again, it asked without asking for renewal, for endurance, for healing; the torches flared and the stone lamp blazed and the light was more  _ itself.  _ Now and again there was a flash of memory - Tirion upon Túna in the Treelight, the stars of the Elentári blazing like white flames in the ink-dark sky, faces of mothers and fathers and siblings - and always, always, the Song called its listeners onward. 

_ Now,  _ it said, without saying a word.  _ Now, be shaped, be whole, be  _ yourself  _ once more! _

And then it was over, and the whole bathhouse took a breath, and there was nothing in the air save the scent of wet wood and stone.

Endanáro exhaled, sighing back into himself. He had been deep in the wounds of his patient, watching frail rootlike nerves knit themselves together; he found he was suddenly very tired.

“Anarórë,” he ordered, and she stepped into his place instantly as he sank to the ground. The apprentices who sought to help him in surgery caught him - this, at least, they were used to, in the aftermath of a taxing Song - and helped him to a low bench that ran along the wall. He sat beside his bag, testing himself for any wounds done by overtaxing his will, and found that he would recover quickly and fully. 

“The six of you,” Anarórë instructed, glancing back at them, “will Sing for the bleeding to stop. We’ll bathe him, and when that’s finished we’ll see about surgery.”

“Yes,” Elenér agreed, and the rest of his companions nodded before launching into the delicate harmonies of  _ Pustasercë.  _

This was an undemanding, unobtrusive Song, and it quietly filled the spaces between newly voiced conversation. Palanwendë and Minyakáno were the first to sing it, and they kept up the tune as they and Elenér and the rest of their group lined up on either side of their charge, with Anarórë holding his head. 

_ “Neldë, atta, min,”  _ she counted down, and then the seven of them lifted the lanky  _ nér  _ as one, bearing him smoothly across the room to the alcove with the two tubs. 

“Tepid first,” Endanáro instructed as they walked, “and hot water on the places where he needs it.” 

“Right,” Elenér said, and when they reached the tub, he and Palanwendë backed into it, stepping down into the recessed pool so that they could sit  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë on the low seat and keep his head above water. Their task, for the moment, was now done, and they left the pool to keep up the Song. If they were careful, it would keep any of their charge’s wounds from reopening, though it couldn’t falter for a second. So the six of them passed it back and forth between them, letting it slip from voice to voice without a pause. 

_ What was that Song?  _ Amdis asked Endanáro suddenly.  _ I felt it from the house.  _

_ His back was broken, and I mended it,  _ he explained.

_ Do you need me?  _ she asked.  _ You must be weary.  _

_ No, in truth, the melody aided me,  _ he admitted.  _ You can go back to your bed for an hour or so once you’ve finished, I think.  _

_ If you say so,  _ she answered, sounding doubtful. 

_ I  _ do  _ say so,  _ he replied.  _ Am I clear?  _

_ Yes,  _ ingolmo,  _ you’re clear.  _

With that, she was gone, and Endanáro was free to watch the progress of the bath. This was being overseen by Aianís, a determined  _ wendë  _ who attacked the whole affair with the attitude of  _ Artaran  _ Nolofinwë planning for battle.  _ Condo  _ Nelyafinwë was surrounded by  _ eldar  _ who were hard at work cleansing him of the grime and filth of countless days as a prisoner, and Aianís herself was cutting away his matted hair while Anarórë knelt by his right side and worked to stitch up his wrist. The smell of blood was everywhere now, even with  _ Pustasercë  _ filling the air still; the master healer guessed it came from old wounds that had been left to dry and seal themselves. 

“How are we going to get this out of our robes?” one of the novices who was in the bath with their patient asked, looking down at herself. Everywhere the water touched was stained red. “None of our soaps are made for it.”

“We’ll find a way,” Anarórë promised, keeping her eyes fixed on the delicate sutures that she was carefully laying down. It was slow work, with tiny stitches, and the ground beside her was littered with small bone fragments she had plucked from bloody flesh to make the cut cleaner and less likely to fester. 

“I hope so,” another apprentice said, and the revulsion was evident in their voice. Endanáro chuckled, and shook his head - they would all get used to blood in their time. 

_ Condo  _ Nelyafinwë was bathed, and bathed again, and bathed again; they had to lift him out of the tub twice to drain it and refill it. At last, the water ran clear, and his skin was something close to its true color, and his hair was once again a brilliant red, even if it was cropped close about his ears. 

“What now?” Aianís asked, and Endanáro sighed and got to his feet. 

“Now,” he said, “we move him back to the table, and have a look at any wounds that have healed - if there’s rot beneath them, we’ll have to cut them open. And I think his shoulder will have to be broken again, so we can set it.”

Elenér made a horrified face, and he raised an eyebrow. “What? Sometimes awful things must be done for new growth to be possible.”

“I hope that’s not a metaphor,” Anarórë said. Someone laughed. 

“Should we continue with  _ Pustasercë?”  _ another voice asked, and Endanáro shook his head. 

“I think we’ll manage without it,” he said. “Once he’s on the table and there are plenty of clean bandages.”

“And if he bleeds out?” Aianís asked. 

“If he bleeds out, he bleeds out, sadly,” Endanáro said. “We cannot Sing back his blood forever.”

The move back to the table was quick. By now, his novices knew what he expected, and their shock had faded as  _ condo  _ Nelyafinwë’s injuries became less horrifying thanks to their continued proximity. In half a minute, the tall, bony  _ nér  _ was laid out on the table, and every lamp and candle and torch was blazing bright.

“Count back from ten, using the seconds as a mark,” Endanáro instructed, “and when you reach zero, end  _ Pustasercë.”  _ He counted with them, watching the faces of those who Sang, and when they reached zero they collectively resolved into an ending chord. He turned his attention back to his patient, and watched with relief as none of the still-open wounds turned to rivers of red.  _ Perhaps my Song of rejoining stopped the bleeding on its own,  _ he thought, and shrugged.

“He’s going to live, for the moment,” he said. “Now, all of you are on surgery duty.”

“What does that mean?” Elenér asked.

“I was getting to that,” the master healer said, scanning the unconscious  _ elda.  _ “I can see five or six places where we’ll have to cut open healed wounds to purge them of rot, and yes, we will have to break his shoulder and reset it.” He glanced up at the faces of the novices as echoes of frightened sighs passed between them. “In a few days, I’ll see if I can Sing the break into something resembling a functional joint, but for now, we’ll have to brace it.” 

“We?” Indîrië asked.

“Yes,” Endanáro said. “The lot of you will be doing most of the  _ work,  _ as I trust you with scalpels and braces. I’ll Sing the breaks in his shoulder, and then I want Elenér and Palanwendë and you to join me in  _ Antoryamë.  _ When Amdis arrives, she’ll take over for the both of you, and I’ll change to  _ Ceulë  _ while she continues with  _ Antoryamë.  _ Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Indîrië answered. 

“Anarórë?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll be in charge of bandaging and stitching. Aianís will be with you, but she’ll take the lead on reopening his wounds, and cleaning them out.”

“This will be a lot of work,  _ ingolmo.”  _

“It will,” Endanáro agreed. “But I know you can do it. All of you.”

He could feel the gratitude and the pride in each and every one of the  _ eldar  _ watching him, and he smiled at them.

“We won’t be stopping until he’s stable,” he promised. “Let’s begin.”

The room burst into activity and Song, and for a moment, their hopes blazed brightly enough to make the torches seem like shadows. 

_ He'll live,  _ Endanáro thought, _if I have to drag him back from the Halls myself._

_He deserves that much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nirwë: scar, a word explicitly deleted by Tolkien but used here to indicate that scars are unusual  
> ingolmo: teaching-master  
> airalindë: holy song, hymn  
> Lintalyën: conjugated verb, 'I soothe you'  
> Apteryalyën: conjugated verb, 'I repair you'  
> Sundo: root  
> Cévacanta: new shape  
> Pustasercë: 'stop blood'  
> neldë: three  
> atta: two  
> nin: one


End file.
